


Healer of Heaven

by Persephone



Series: Sons of Troy [7]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aphrodite is injured in battle and her pain drives Paris nearly to insanity as he is left with no protection from the realities of the war. His only hope is Hector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healer of Heaven

The Seer was not asleep, yet she saw phantoms:

 _Chaos… clashing weapons – War._

 _A great warrior, a stallion-breaker, brandished a huge boulder, a tremendous feat – Diomedes._

 _And with a great bloodcurdling cry threw it at a valiant soldier – Aeneas._

 _Down the soldier went, bracing himself with one hand on the earth, the world going black before his eyes._

 _Then a shining swirl of Beauty… a goddess come to rescue – Aphrodite._

 _But the great warrior, Athena’s weapon of vengeance, thrust his spear at the shinning robes of Beauty before his eyes, and slashed her wrist._

 _And above the cries of dying soldiers an ear-piercing scream rent the air, and the goddess fled to the Healers of Heaven, afraid to die._

\- Robert Fagles, The Iliad

**********

Paris walked across the gardens leisurely, perfectly aware that he was being followed. She had been following him since he entered the palace grounds, and, from the way she was making an effort to remain hidden, it astounded him that she didn’t think he knew.

He glanced up towards his halls, set high above the other sections of the palace. The masonry of smooth ashlar gleamed invitingly in the mid-morning light, and already he could smell the faint heady scent of perfumed oils emanating from its windows, calling him home.

He looked to the left, to Hector’s halls, but he knew his brother was in the fields and not at home.

Paris sighed. Well, since there was no Hector to play with at the moment, he might as well let Cassandra amuse him to pass the time.

When he reached his gates, he turned around. Cassandra was now only a few feet from him. She halted when he turned, and lowered her head, turning to the side to gently pet some lovely pink blossoms.

Her lustrous dark curls were bound in swirls at her nape, and she wore a magnificent, flowing silk robe of dark green that set off her white skin and enhanced her ethereal beauty even more.

Paris smiled, and bowed deeply. Then he leaned his hip against one of the stone pillars of the gates. He had no idea why she was following him but, since she was who she was, he could not be bothered to question.

“It is always a pleasure to see you, sister,” Paris bit down on his lower lip to suppress his smile. Yes, it was _always_ amusing to see this indescribable daughter of Priam’s.

Cassandra must have seen his bow, but she did not return it, instead she kept her eyes on the ground. Paris looked down to see what was so mesmerizing, but found nothing.

For a few moments, there was only the sound of birds singing in the trees, and Cassandra’s fingers rustling the blossoms.

Paris waited with anticipation for her customary spectacle.

“Ummm…” she said softly, slowly. Her eyes flitted everywhere, but avoided his. “You… you are… Hmmm…”

“Yes, Alexandra?” Paris said through compressed lips, struggling with his mirth.

“…mortal…” she finally finished.

“Thank you. But I was already aware of that.”

“Giftssss… if divine… are… weighted…”

“Do tell…” Paris’s lips quirked dangerously. _She_ would know.

She seemed somewhat agitated now, though the only sign was her stroking the pink blossoms faster. Paris watched her turn her head from one side to the other, as if refuting something he had said, and marveled that she could even keep her attention long enough to have this delirious conversation with him.

Why couldn’t she just speak _sense_ for even one minute. Oh, but then she wouldn’t be nearly so entertaining.

“A mortal… must rely… on his own… abilities… for his own… happiness…”

Paris’s eyebrows raised, surprised that she had actually managed an entire sentence.

“Are not _all_ abilities of mortal men _from_ the glorious gods?”

“…ummm…”

Paris bit his lip hard. “You do not sound so sure yourself, Alexandra,” he derided gently, smiling. “I would very much like to _believe_ you, but…”

He let the sentence trail off. From the moment of his birth Cassandra had forever been concerning herself with his affairs, to no avail. Yet she never seemed to learn.

“… _believe_ me… Yes. Please…” She ran her hands slowly up and down her forearms, as if trying to comfort herself.

Paris watched, fascinated that anyone could be so… diffuse.

“I promised consent to Apollo but broke my word…” Cassandra suddenly spoke clearly in a low voice, startling Paris, until he realized she spoke of Apollo. Then, she always spoke clearly. “Ever since that fault…”

He had no idea what she was talking about, or what it had to do with their topic of conversation. If one could call it that.

He shrugged and smiled widely at her. “So, give him your consent. He is quite beautiful, you know.”

“Giftssss…”

“Well,” Paris interrupted, finished with her. He pushed off from the pillar. “If you ever need a respite from your…” – what _did_ she do? – “day, I’ll be more than happy to entertain you any time.”

He smiled, bowed again, and turned and began to walk into his compound, trying to at least get indoors before…

But he could no longer control himself, and burst out laughing.

He really felt terrible, because she was still standing right by the gates and could see him, but for the life of him—

Then suddenly a razor sharp blade sliced at Paris’s right wrist. His body spasmed and he gripped his wrist to staunch the blood he was certain was spraying out of it. The pain was so absolute that for a moment Paris could not utter a sound, but only stood frozen, his mouth agape in horror.

Then his body inflamed, and he screamed with such force that his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap.

A dark mist swirled before his eyes, and he knew he could only be dying…

Then all turned to blackness.

**********

Hector’s chariot came to a thunderous halt at the perimeter of their encampment. His contingent was positioned outside the ruins of Apollo’s temple, the very first point of attack by the Achaeans when the war had begun so long ago.

Now it was a deserted husk, but effective for launching offensives because it was nearer to the beaches than the fields were.

At the moment the encampment was bustling with men going into and returning bloodied and torn up from the skirmishes they were pressing forward. The situation was not very good, however, because the Achaean lord, Diomedes, was rampaging madly this morning. No one and nothing could stop him, and Hector had never seen such bloodlust in a man’s eyes.

Yet he had to be stopped. But to do that, they needed fresh methods of attack, because Diomedes was spurring the Achaeans to feats of superhuman endurance, and the Trojans and their allies would not win any more direct engagements. He was going to have to call a session with his captains.

Already, in the distance he could see Acamas in heated conversation with a group of captains. He was a Thracian prince who had lost his King in a night raid some time ago on their field encampment, the very day they had arrived to fight for Troy. But Acamas still usually bore on with patience and optimism.

Therefore, it was not a good sign that _he_ was speaking heatedly. In the group Hector could also see Sarpedon, a Lycian ally, shouting back at him. One not so patient, or optimistic.

Hector sighed deeply, and secured his massive shield in the chariot. He always dreaded this initial encounter with any of the captains before a strategy session. When they took time to discuss strategy, fears could be calmed. Right now all he would get from Sarpedon was a rant.

He was about to step out of his chariot, when suddenly a man rushed up to its side, and began to pour out a stream of words at him.

The man was outfitted as would be a messenger from Troy, but he had been talking with the swiftness of lightening for more than a minute and still Hector did not understand a word he was saying.

Hector stepped off his chariot unto the ground next to him. Since the man was already nervous enough to crack in two, he left his weapons in the chariot, and very slowly and careful raised both his hands up, palms outward, so that he would see that he was not a threat to his already nervous state.

The man’s rattling gradually subsided as Hector placed his hands on his arms, gripping slightly. When he had silence, he forced a smiled.

“Who sent you?” he said soothingly, starting with the simplest question.

“Th- the King!” the messenger huffed, offended. Hector resisted looking heavenward.

“Regarding what matter?”

“Prince Paris!”

“And what of Alexandros?”

“He is _dying_!” the man yelled, shaking.

At first Hector simply stared at the man, completely baffled. But the man was white with fear, and slowly Hector realized his words were no jest.

At the speed of a thought, and without sparing a glance in the direction of the grouped captains, Hector leapt back on his chariot and his driver immediately spurred the stallions. They tossed their heads and reared, and bolted in the direction of the city.

**********

Hector knew he should not run into the palace, and even worse, he should not run on the grounds of the palace. The people of the city looked to him for a sense of safety, and if they saw him running they might fear the worst.

But he could not make himself slow down, and he didn’t even see the stares as he ran for the throne room.

One of his father’s numerous advisors was hurrying down the hallway towards him, robes swishing behind him. Hector forced himself to stop.

“Where is Alexandros?” he tried to keep his voice level.

“In his house. Has word reached you? Alas, the prince is not—”

But Hector was long gone.

When he reached Paris’s house, he crashed through the front entrance to find a hoard of servants milling about with herbs and incense in fine vases, and jugs of scented oils, and soft animal hides.

In the middle of the room, staring vacantly at the commotion, was his sister Cassandra. She turned when she saw him, and moved in his direction.

“Astyanax…” Cassandra gracefully curtseyed all the way to the floor, her green robes billowing about her.

“Sister,” Hector bowed to her, always somewhat taken aback by the manner in which she bowed to him. The only other person she granted that courtesy was the King himself. Carefully, he extended his arms to embraced her.

“Ahhh…” she gasped softly, and shied away. He immediately cursed himself for forgetting that he still wore his armor.

“Please excuse my thoughtlessness,” he apologized, and instead took her hand and kissed it.

His heart was pounding, his thoughts scrambling to know what was wrong with Paris, but Cassandra was not a woman who could be rushed.

His kiss on her hand was rewarded with a glowing smile. Hector found himself smiling back. He loved Cassandra very dearly, but nothing she ever said seemed connected to reality as he witnessed it, and he wished with all his heart that her life had turned out differently.

“My dear sister,” he said softly. “Is Alexandros alright? Is Helen at least with him?”

Cassandra shook her head. “He will not… see her…”

“Then what of his condition? Is it at least exaggerated?”

“…always, with giftssss…”

Hector stopped, and patiently tried again.

“What ails him, sister?”

“…mortality…”

Hector stopped breathing. Dear gods, it could not be that Paris _was_ in fact dying...

He looked at Cassandra, and she smiled radiantly at him, as if she had just given him wonderful news. But he knew he would get nothing more from her.

Still smiling up at him, she gently pulled his head down. He bowed his head, and she kissed his forehead softly.

“Go to him,” she said so firmly that Hector pulled back to stare. “He is… alone…”

Then she stepped back, curtseyed deeply again, and walked out of the house.

Hector stared after her, disoriented as he always was after speaking with her.

Then he turned and hurried into Paris’s chambers.

He opened the door quietly, and saw Paris standing by one of the wide windows, staring out. He was not wearing any garments, but was wrapped from shoulder to feet in a long white cotton sheet, which Hector assumed was bedding.

Paris’s house was set highest of all the palace sections, and therefore was the highest point in the city. It was a clear day, and he could see across all the chaos in the fields outside the wall, and nearly all the way to the beaches, where the Achaean warships bobbed gently on the Aegean like tiny corks.

“Xandros…”

He saw Paris sway and grab the window sill, and in two steps he was behind him, supporting him by his elbows.

“What is this I see before my eyes…” Paris rasped thickly.

Hector shot a look out the window, but made no reply.

“Send everyone in the house… send them all away, now that you are here,” Paris said in a low, dead voice. Hector stepped back and looked at Paris. He had never heard a voice like that from him.

Paris seemed like a phantom of himself, and his usually vibrant, lean body was limp in his arms. Hector slowly, carefully turned him around to face him, and inspected every inch of his face.

His golden complexion was now white and bloodless, and the darkness of his curls stood out against his face. His eyes, ever ablaze, were nearly lifeless, the deepness and richness of their dark depths wholly tempered.

Hector stared in shock, hardly recognizing his brother. But as he watched, a tiny spark now lit in their depths as he focused on Hector. Hector’s heart knew an equally tiny measure of relief, and he didn’t stop to contemplate the irony that he would ever find himself looking for that dread fire in Paris’s eyes.

“Please,” Paris’s voice hitched, and Hector stared on, completely at a loss. Paris was looking at him so pleadingly that Hector’s heart contracted and stayed that way. “Just you and me. Please… send them all away…”

Hector nodded reassuringly, and turned to leave. But Paris still held on to his arms.

Hector pulled gently, but Paris’s hold was firm. He smiled at Paris, but Paris shook his head.

Then Paris’s eyes slowly began to lose their focus, and to glaze, and he began to unbuckle Hector’s armor with shaky fingers. Hector gently covered his hands, but didn’t try to stop him.

He watched Paris remove his breastplate, and then try to burrow into his chest. Bewildered, he stroked his palms over Paris’s back and was startled to discover that despite his bloodless look, his body was burning up. Paris cried out quietly and tightened his arms around him.

“I will be but a moment, Xandros.”

“…you are _always_ gone…”

Hector stopped stroking his back, then resumed in silence, realizing something was happening that he could not quite comprehend. This was not Paris.

He began to walk slowly backwards, and thankfully Paris moved with him. They reached the bed, and he gently bent down and slid his arms under Paris’s knees, and lifted him off his feet. He placed him in the middle of the bed, then pulled the covers over him.

Paris withdrew his arms from under the covers and tried to slide them around Hector’s neck. But Hector kept out of reach, undeterred by Paris’s slow frown.

“I will be back in a few moments,” he stroked the side of Paris’s face. “Will you wait here for me?”

Paris nodded slowly, and Hector lightly kissed his forehead, before turning and leaving the room.

Hector made his way back into the living area of the house. Servants sat around, whatever they had been carrying sitting on the floor next to them. Some were whispering among themselves, and others simply sat in silence.

Hector beckoned to an older servant whom he knew to be the head of Paris’s household. The old man shuffled closer and bent his head.

Hector placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, which barely reached him mid-torso. “Perhaps you can tell me what happened?”

The old man shook his head. “The Princess Cassandra was the only other soul present when it happened.” He shrugged, clearly ill at ease about that.

Hector nodded. “I know that it can be difficult to make her talk when she wishes not to.”

The man nodded vigorously. “By the time we reached him, he was like a man possessed. None could understand anything he shouted. We then brought him inside, and the Princess said, ‘Now he is fine’.”

“She made this statement?”

“Yes, my Prince,” the servant shook his head, perplexed. “Again and again. But how could we _believe_ her? Clearly he was not. So we sent for the physicians. They did all they could, but nothing could quiet him. Then he just stopped, and began asking for you, and you only. He would utter no other words. And he has been that way ever since.”

Hector listened in silence, deeply dismayed by what he was hearing. Nothing about what had happened made any sense, nothing of Cassandra’s words or behavior made any sense. And it was just poor luck that she had been the only one with Paris when it happened.

“Thank you,” Hector let out a deep breath. “Now, please send everyone away, and you may go too. But tell my father that I am here now, and I will be taking care of Alexandros.”

He turned back to Paris’s room. But he stopped at the door and tried again to make sense of what he had heard. What _was_ wrong with his brother? What sort of illness had he fallen victim to? An illness for which even the best physicians in Troy had no relief.

Never in all the years he had known Paris had he seen him like this. He seemed like a sick child, irritable and inconsolable and… petrified.

**********

Paris’s eyes were closed, and his breaths came slow, and short, and shallow. His skin felt so sensitive that the feel of the soft cotton sheets against his body was sending waves of warm electricity through him.

For tense moments he laid as still as he could, shivering and sweating profusely as his mind tumbled chaotically.

He did not know what was happening to him, where he was, or why he was there. But he was seeing horrors in his mind.

He moaned softly, and tried to shut down his mind as he was assaulted with images of bristling spears, and hacking swords and soldiers dropping like flies.

He was in a battle, but at the same time, he was out of it, on top of it like a mist, or shadow, passing over the madness below. But he could see it all as clear as day, and if he conquered his fear and reached down, the weapons would slash at him and his fingers would come back crimson, and commingled with the blood of dying soldiers.

And it was steaming hot, even though it seemed like early morning, and there was such a noise, such wailing and screaming, that he pressed his hands over his ears and sank lower in his bed, digging his fingers into the skin behind his ears.

And in the midst of all this, warring with these images, were sensations of profound pleasure. Of being held in powerful arms, and being caressed all over by warm, wet lips… and being penetrated deeply, deliciously roughly. The sensations were causing an underlying arousal almost too intense to be borne, causing his entire body to writhe and twist under the sheets, and further aggravating his over sensitized flesh.

Paris gasped at the painful pleasure and grabbed the tops of the sheets, and pushed them down over his nakedness, until they tangled with his legs.

He wanted to squeeze his cock with both hands, to wrench out of himself a climax so strong he would faint…

But he was too afraid of the dying soldiers, and his hands would not obey. They clutched at the sheets on both sides of his already thrusting hips, and he gritted his teeth and pulled the sheets from around the bed.

He moaned loudly, and kicked his legs, but nothing changed, he could not see past his terror. But his arousal would not abate, and a name came with the pleasure.

“ _Hector_!” he wailed piteously, bucking weakly against the bed. “ _Come back_ …”

Suddenly, there were strong hands gripping his arms. The hands were big, and calloused, and he shuddered at their roughness, his skin searing.

He whimpered helplessly and wanted to grab at their owner, but his hands would not let go of the sheets.

“It is all right, Xandros…” a deep voice wrapped around him like a soothing cloth. “Please try and relax…”

The hands slid from his arms, and gently pressed into the sides of his torso. Even against the burning of his skin he could feel their warmth. It was a good and comforting warmth, one that was not trying to cremate him.

Slowly, the hands began a deep, soft massage on his flesh, and Paris groaned over and over. It was supposed to soothe, but now it inflamed him. He fumbled towards the hands, and tried to push them down to his pulsing cock, but they refused to give up their work.

He felt them massage down his hips, down his thighs. He began to cry out.

“Shhh… It is all right, Alexandros…” the voice soothed.

But it was far from all right. The soldiers moved in ordered chaos, screaming.

“What is this?” Paris gasped, turning his head from side to side. “Who made them do this?”

There was silence, and the hands slowed their massage. The owner was listening. Paris tried desperately to focus his mind while there was a possibility that the owner of these wonderful hands would have answers for him.

“Answer me…” he tried to sound stern, but he failed.

“Who made whom do what?” came the soft reply.

“…not questions… answers…”

There was a pause. The hands massaged every inch of his thighs.

“Help me…” he moaned sadly. He was losing his train of thought, he needed relief. His hips left the bed.

The hands gently pushed his hips back down, and Paris turned his body, trying to bring his cock into contact with the hands.

“ _Touch_ it…!” he begged.

The hands were fighting a losing battle with his hips, and the next moment, they dug in deep… and his cock sank into warm, wet heat.

Paris spasmed, and his legs kicked off the sheets and wrapped around the head at his crotch. Yet his hands would not release the sheets. Because still he could hear the terrible sounds of swords clashing against bronze armor. The sounds reverberated in his head, and fear lapped without cease at his mind.

But the mouth on his arousal wrestled with the terror in his mind. The mouth was sucking him deep down a hot throat, sucking and constricting as if it understood that nothing else mattered.

Suddenly a sword sliced the air before his face and he heard an anguished scream, and Paris screamed, and the weakness left his body, and he thrashed wildly. Putting all his strength in his hips, he thrust, and thrust into the mouth that held him complete prisoner, until every hair on his skin stood on end, and he finally exploded.

His mind was wrecked, and he tried to speak, but could only make sounds. So he made whatever sounds he hoped would help, until the owner of the mouth took pity on him and slid over his body, covering it.

The body on top of his was warm and huge, and nearly suffocating him. But this was what he needed to drive away the terror, the visions. The body shifted slightly to the side and powerful arms wrapped around him.

Gods save him, but his body recognized those arms. Their size and power. Salvation was here.

And with tremendous effort he was finally able to release the sheets he clutched, and his arms constricted around the body covering him.

Now, there were warm, full lips against his ear. And they were saying soothing things he could not understand.

In his mind’s eye was a sea of broken chariots, dead horses. Spokes and broken wheels littered endless fields, and now he could see that men with broken bodies were crawling over broken wheels. In the distance was the unscalable wall of Troy. They were trying to return home, but it was too far to crawl.

Paris wailed softly into the chest pressing his face. His fingers dug in anywhere they could and elicited a pained gasp.

The sound sank deep into Paris’s mind and wafted across the sea of broken chariots to him, and heated his body. He ground his crotch into the body against him, and whimpered when he felt nakedness rub back.

His arousal leaked all over the cock massaging his, and he heard a different type of gasp from above him. Then he was being pushed unto his back, and he spread his legs to accommodate the intoxicating weight on top of him.

The hands pushed his arms up above his head, and intertwined its fingers with his. His arms, his hands, his fingers felt safe. The mouth slid down his neck, lips stroking his burning flesh.

“I can see everyone of them…”

“Of whom do you speak,” came the heated whisper against his neck.

“The dying men…”

The lips stopped all movement. Paris writhed.

“ _Please_ …” he gasped desperately, “please do not _ever_ stop…”

Tenderly, the lips continued their caress. Paris tightened his fingers against those clutching his.

“Did I…” He stopped and moaned, and mindlessly turned his head from side to side, “Is this all my _fault_ …?”

“No, Xandros… It was only a matter of time before they came—”

“But I know… I know what they say behind my back…”

“Shhh…” Now the mouth descended even lower on his body, burning a path down his chest, over his nipples. Paris arched into the safety of that mouth.

“…that I have no strength of mind… Wishing… only for pleasures of the flesh…”

The pressure of the mouth against his skin became more insistent, and now a tongue lapped at his stomach. His muscles contracted almost painfully, but the pressure only increased. Maybe that breathtaking pressure would become so strong all else would flee in its presence.

The tongue had lowered, and now lapped at the tip of his wet arousal, pressing it into his stomach.

Paris writhed, and the body pressed him down.

“…but they… do not see… what _willpower_ it takes… to keep on… day after day…”

The tip of his erection sank into the wet mouth.

Paris grabbed around frantically, until his fingers sank into thick curls.

“Will you… protect our city…” he whispered in a small, low voice. “Will you… return to us…”

The arms around him constricted painfully.

“I pray…” he wailed. “I pray every night…”

There was the sound of thunder as thousands of bronze shields were smashed by thousands of swords and axes and spears. And now he could smell the blood…

“ _Enough_ … _enough_ …!” he screamed.

The body surged up and covered his, and one hand slid under his knees and pushed his legs up and wrapped them around a warm waist. A large, warm hand settled on his chest, and stroked down, and then back up, and then down again.

And at last, at last he was being penetrated, slowly and warmly. And he fought feverishly, desperately to forever hold inside him the safety that it brought.

**********

In the ruins of Apollo’s temple, the captains stood around in a circle, none at ease enough to remain seated.

In their conference for a new strategy to counter the force of Diomedes rampaging, and in the absence of their general, the captains struggled under the leadership of Sarpedon. And patience wore thin on every man. Fears and egos and personalities clashed.

Nevertheless, they had managed to forge ahead, and had in fact developed and mapped out a good retaliation. They wanted, one and all, to seize back the day.

And they _would_ put aside their fears, and put their plans into action, but, Acamas shouted, “ _Where_ is noble Hector!”

**********

Hector thought his mind would incinerate as Paris’s body tightened almost impossibly around his cock. He gasped, and then gasped again, stroking the entire length of Paris’s torso with shaking hands, trying to get his brother to let go of his fear so that his body would relax.

Paris’s delirium was now clear to him. Somehow, as a result of whatever had happened to him earlier, the devastation of the war was now inside his head, and Hector’s heart broke for him.

His poor Paris did not deserve this, and Hector cursed the goddess for abandoning him like this. What lesson did she think she was teaching him?

He bent forward and slid his arms around Paris, who had not opened his eyes for a moment since Hector returned, and pulled him tight against his body. “It is all right, Xandros,” he whispered soothingly. “I am here.”

“…safe…” Paris was weeping, Hector was sure of it, yet he saw no tears.

“Yes, you are safe with me—” his voice broke, and he pressed his face into Paris’s burning nape. _He_ could cry for them both, but he did not want Paris to hear him, and lose all hope.

“…if you love me…” Paris whispered against Hector’s temple.

Hector planted his hands on either side of Paris and lifted his chest, and began to thrust deeply into him. Paris threw his arms around Hector’s back, and lifted himself so that their chests pressed together, and pressed the side of his face into Hector’s chest.

Like that, he held on as Hector loved him.

“…you… are… divine…” he heard Paris whisper against the skin of his chest as they rocked together, “…but not… weighted…”

He didn’t know what that meant, but he wanted to give Paris any comfort he was capable of giving. And he wanted Paris to always be able to rely on his ability to do so.

Paris began wailing endlessly, and Hector knew his climax approached. He leaned down and pushed his head against Paris’s face, until his brother lifted his head, and Hector swallowed his moans into his mouth.

He kissed him deeply, trying to taste his agony, and gasped in shock when Paris bit down on his tongue and would not let go.

There was pain, but he let him bite… only thrusting harder into his heat.

Paris let go of his tongue and his head fell back, and Hector looked down into his brother’s face, at his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open.

“Let everything go, Xandros…”

If that did not work, Hector had a fear of his own – that Paris’s body would never relax around his arousal, and he would not be able to find release.

But a moment later there was no longer an iron clamp on him, instead Paris’s body constricted in sweet waves around his cock.

He felt Paris’s fingers digging deep, a sensation that always undid him, and he ground his stomach against Paris’s erection, and kept his eyes open and fought off his own climax.

Then Paris cried out, and a moment later, erupted in a screaming climax.

Hector buried his face in Paris’s nape and groaned deeply, as he finally let himself go.

**********

There was a heavy weight lying partially on top his body, preventing him from fully stretching on his bed.

Paris’s brow furrowed deeply. Who in the name of the gods had climbed into bed with him?

Then he thought his mind must be playing tricks on him, for he recognized the heady, sensual smell of Hector.

But it was the middle of the day, and his brother was in the fields. So who was this?

He turned his face slowly, and gasped to see Hector’s handsome face not inches from his. He must be having a lucid dream.

He was still staring speechlessly when Hector’s eyes drifted open. He had not been asleep, it seemed.

Hector’s hand slid up Paris’s stomach and stroked the side of his face.

“How are you feeling?” his brother asked.

“Confused…”

Hector pushed himself up on his elbow. “That is to be expected, I presume” he nodded somewhat tiredly, and ran a hand through his curls.

“Expected? Why?”

Hector’s eyes narrowed into slits as he observed Paris. His lips pursed, as though he was going to say something. Then he changed his mind, and looked even closer at Paris.

“What do you remember?” he began slowly.

“Of what?!”

“Of this afternoon…”

Paris looked around his room. “Well, I… No, it was mid-morning, and I had to get rid of Alexandra who was being strange as usual. Then I came inside for a nap.”

Now it was his turn to narrow his eyes at Hector. He shifted closer, and suddenly felt wetness against his entrance. Realization descended, and his mouth dropped open.

Hector immediately sat up in the bed, and pushed out of it, taking half the sheets with him.

“Gods, Hector!” Paris burst out laughing. “Did you _ravish_ me _while I slept?!_ ”

Hector whipped up his discarded armor, quickly picking up his arm and shin guards. But he didn’t bother to put them on. Paris watched him, laughing so hard he could barely breath. And it wasn’t helping that Hector’s face was a shade of red he had never before seen in his life.

Hector stormed to the door and yanked it open, juggling his various armor. Paris thought of offering assistance, but then thought better of it.

“If you ever bring this up again,” Hector warned, his face scarlet red, “I will make sure you regret it.”

And then he slammed out.

Paris laughed even harder, falling back against his bed. Had Hector used a _potion_ on him?! How arousing that his brother had ravished him while he slept! Oh, but it wasn’t fair! How seldom it was that Hector laid in his wonderful, soft bed with him, and how cruel to have let him sleep through it!

He scowled, but he could not hold it, for his delight was too great. He pulled his knees up, and slid his hands down, one grabbing his stiffening cock, the other continuing past it until it touched the warm stickiness around his entrance.

He moaned deeply, hardening painfully at the thought of Hector taking him while he lay helpless. His tilted his head back, his pleasure already building, and he slipped his fingers inside.

Then he turned his head sideways on the bed and pressed his nose into the indentation that had held Hector’s body a few moments ago. Inhaling deeply, he pushed his fingers in even deeper as he began to stroke himself.

And in the next moment, he was gasping at how vividly his mind assailed him with the belief that the hands inside and around him belonged to Hector.

**********

As his chariot blazed towards the ruins of Apollo’s temple, Hector’s mind remained behind with his brother.

He had never seen a transformation like that before, and he was completely confounded. Despite his harsh words to Paris on his departure, Paris’s callous behavior and accusations greatly relieved him, because it meant he was completely recovered.

Whatever had happened has passed, but Hector would always wonder what strange paths Paris’s mind had strayed upon, and what had led him there.

But now, he had to bring his own mind back, as his chariot was once more pulling into the perimeter of their encampment. That he had pulled into the encampment just this morning seemed improbable, for so much had happened in Paris’s house that it felt like a lifetime ago.

As his driver brought his steeds to a halt, he saw farther afield that the men had already formed lines ready for attack, and was pleased that his captains had carried on in his absence.

Those very captains now came rushing out of the temple ruins, Sarpedon in the lead. Hector’s heart soared when he saw that Aeneas also joined them, despite his injuries.

Acamas followed closely behind, and even though he too looked frustrated, he tried to grasp Sarpedon arm. But the Lycian shook him off.

“Hector!” Sarpedon shouted. “Are we, your allies, to do your fighting for you?! Do we not also have wives and sons and lands to return to?! You should be _begging_ us to stand and fight for you and Troy, but instead you vanish. Or do you _think_ you could hold your city without Trojan allies, just you and your brothers and your sisters’ husbands!”

Hector stared at the man, breathing evenly. Without taking his eyes off him, he grabbed his sword, and he smirked as the other man took a step back.

Then he slipped his arm through the leather strap, and slinging his sword across his back, pulled the strap tight across his chest. He reached for his helmet and pulled it down over his head. Then he extended both arms and seized the two spears fitted into either sides of the bronze chariot. He carried no shield.

He turned and leapt down, a bronze tipped spear in each hand, each razor sharp and shining before him, each eleven feet long. He spared Sarpedon one last look, and then strode in the direction of the lined men.

“My brothers and I _will_ hold back the entire Achaean flood,” he shouted without looking back, “if that is what it comes down to. Every one of us, each in our own way.”

Then Hector walked down his lines of fighters, looking each man in the eye. They nodded back at him, filling him with pride. Then he took his place before them, his back to them, and lifted his right arm, brandishing his long spear high into the air.

“ _This day_ ,” he bellowed in a voice great enough for ten combat soldiers, “we will tear the life and soul out of whole Achaean battalions. We will drive the enemy _back_ all the way to their hollow ships! _For Troy_!”

And his fighters, Aeneas leading, roared back.

Then Hector, his helmet flashing, took a massive breath, and charged his men into the raw terror of the war.

 _End_


End file.
